


Hear it in the night

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Sleeptalking, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:56:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: ‘I talk in my sleep? That’s dangerous.’ Bruce cocked his head and grinned.(Clark Kent’s heart was a field of wheat. Bruce Wayne’s smile was a book of matches. Clark was never going to make this through intact.)‘Yeah,’ Clark agreed. It was dangerous. ‘You said you love me.’
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent
Comments: 14
Kudos: 239





	Hear it in the night

**Author's Note:**

> hello here’s some soft Superbat. Title from The Romantics’ “Talking in Your Sleep” because really, why wouldn’t I?
> 
> enjoy! <3

Bruce was asleep when Clark returned. Clark changed out of his uniform and rinsed himself off before he stepped into his bedroom. Bruce looked at ease, relaxed. Asleep, his brows were unfurrowed and his mouth was gentle. Clark hadn’t expected Bruce to stay after he needed to rush off. Bruce had lifted two fingers in a mock-salute when Clark flew off, and Clark had assumed Bruce would – go home, go out.

He didn’t expect Bruce in his bed, his clothes folded in a neat pile at the foot of the bed.

Clark slipped in between the sheets, careful to lift the cover only as much as necessary, keeping the cold out. His heating had been acting up for weeks, and though it didn’t bother Clark, he knew how Bruce felt about it. Bruce murmured in protest at the rush of sudden air, his eyebrows frowning for a moment before smoothing out again. Clark lay down on his back. Or – he tried to lie down on his back. When he put his head on the pillow, he felt a hand snaking out, spreading over his chest, dragging him closer. Clark turned onto his side and Bruce snuggled into his heat, resting his face against Clark’s neck. Bruce’s nose was cold, his breath even and warm.

‘’sgood,’ he murmured.

Bruce’s arm curled around him, his thumb tracing over Clark’s skin. Clark stroked Bruce’s hair and kissed his forehead. If it wasn’t for his steady, calm breathing, Clark would have thought Bruce had woken up. Then again, Bruce would never relax against Clark like this when awake, burrowing close and nuzzling against Clark’s throat. Bruce pressed his lips against Clark’s skin. Clark sighed and held him close.

Because Bruce was asleep, because his breath was even and his heart rate was slowed, Clark kissed his forehead again.

‘I love you,’ he whispered.

It was safe to admit this in the darkness, in the silence of the night. It was safe to say this when Bruce couldn’t hear it, when Bruce couldn’t be scared by it.

‘Love you.’

The words were a whisper, a soft exhale. The words were Bruce’s, though his heartbeat was still slow with sleep.

The words echoed in Clark’s head and he didn’t fall asleep for hours.

When Clark woke up, it was in an empty bed. The smell of Bruce clung to the sheets and he pressed his forearm over his eyes. Bruce had been asleep. Bruce had been asleep and Clark had said he loved him and Bruce had said it _back_. And now Bruce was awake and Bruce was gone. Did he remember? Did he know what Clark had said? Did he know what _he_ had said?

Several months ago, Clark had told Bruce that he cared about him. He hadn’t said it as a big confession, but as an aside after wishing him good luck before a mission. Bruce had looked physically pained. He hadn’t talked to Clark outside of League business for weeks. Whatever it was they had together, it was clear to Clark that Bruce didn’t want it muddled by Clark’s overactive emotions.

Clark was half-way down an emotional spiral when he heard his front door creak open.

‘Clark? You up?’

Bruce had barely raised his voice, even though he was on the other side of the apartment. Clark heard the door close and the sound of keys against porcelain. Bruce had left and Bruce had _come back_. Clark sat up and realised that, maybe, he should get dressed.

He had pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms when the bedroom door creaked open. Bruce, dressed in yesterday’s clothes and a Gotham Knights cap, stood in the doorway with two take-away coffee cups and a paper bag embossed with a local cafe’s logo.

‘No need to get dressed on my account.’ Bruce skated his eyes over Clark’s chest, his gaze as pleasingly possessive as always. He placed one of the coffee cups and the paper bag on the dresser. ‘I got you coffee and a croissant.’

‘I thought you’d left.’

Clark pulled a t-shirt over his head and if he moved slower than usual, if he stretched a little more than usual, well, no one would know. He felt Bruce’s eyes on him. They burned his heart like always. 

‘Mm, no, I’ve got some time.’ Bruce sipped his coffee and leaned against the door frame. ‘You looked peaceful so I thought you might like some coffee.’

The logic of that statement was wrong somehow, Clark knew that, but he also couldn’t get past the fact that Bruce had watched him sleep. That this led to Bruce deciding to buy him a coffee was equally incomprehensible. Clark took a sip of his coffee – drip coffee and cream, Clark could _kiss Bruce_ for keeping it simple – before putting it back on the dresser. He grabbed the paper bag and fished out a croissant.

‘Thanks for staying the night.’

Bruce shrugged. _It’s nothing_ , he could imagine Bruce saying. It would be Bruce all over, saying it’s nothing when it – when the entire _thing_ going on between them was definitely _something_. Clark just didn’t know what the hell that something was.

‘Thank you for putting me up.’

 _Putting me up_ , Bruce said, as if Clark had pulled out his couch and offered him a spare pillow and a blanket, as if they hadn’t slept wrapped around each other. Clark stuffed half a croissant in his mouth to stop the words that wanted to escape. It worked for maybe twenty seconds.

‘You were asleep when I came back last night.’

‘Did you want me to stay up? Or did you want me to go?’ Bruce took off his baseball cap and tossed it onto the bed. He held the coffee to his lips and raised an eyebrow.

‘No, that’s not–’ Clark tugged at his shirt and looked away before meeting Bruce’s eye again. ‘Do you remember what we talked about last night?’

‘I thought you said I was asleep?’

‘You were talking in your sleep – I think.’ 

‘I talk in my sleep? That’s dangerous.’ Bruce cocked his head and grinned.

(Clark Kent’s heart was a field of wheat. Bruce Wayne’s smile was a book of matches. Clark was never going to make this through intact.)

‘Yeah,’ Clark agreed. It was dangerous. ‘You said you love me.’ 

Bruce wasn’t smiling now, his mouth slightly open, his eyes slightly narrowed.

‘Oh. I said–’ Clark had known Bruce for years, and he had never heard him sound like this, lost and hesitant. ‘I don’t remember this.’

‘No, I know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. I know you don’t want to make this complicated. But...’

Clark wrapped his arms around himself and stared past Bruce. He couldn’t look at Bruce, not right now. The silence stretched.

‘Clark.’

When had Bruce moved? He was right in front of Clark now, his coffee beside Clark’s on the dresser. Next to Bruce’s nice suit and perfect tie knot, Clark felt exposed in his worn pyjamas. Bruce’s voice was soft but knowing. His fingertips were calloused where they touched Clark’s jaw, forcing him to look at him. Bruce stared at him, beautiful and unreadable. 

‘Why did I say it?’

‘I told you I love you.’

Bruce didn’t flinch at the words, but neither did he react in any other way. Clark grabbed Bruce’s shirt fronts and pulled him closer, close enough that he could rest his face in the crook of Bruce’s neck. (Just like Bruce had, last night.) Bruce wrapped his fingers around the back of Clark’s neck, fingertips pushing into his hair, holding him in place. Bruce was silent. When Clark was about to pull away and apologise for making a scene, to ask Bruce to forget about it and forgive him for bringing it up, Bruce put his arm around him. Bruce’s palm was warm against the small of his back, heat bleeding through the thin fabric. Clark let go of his shirt, smoothing it down before wrapping his arms around Bruce’s waist.

‘Did you mean it?’ Bruce’s mouth brushed over the top of Clark’s ear, his voice careful.

Clark swallowed.

‘Yes,’ he admitted.

Silence. Bruce’s fingers skated through Clark’s hair, then smoothing it back down again. It was strange, Bruce holding him. He almost never did. Well, he did, but there was always something utilitarian about it. He might hook an arm around Clark to keep him in place or because it made for a better angle or because Clark’s legs wouldn’t hold him, but he always had a _reason_. It was never tender, never like this. Never like last night. Clark tried to tell himself it didn’t feel like a goodbye.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’

‘Ask you what?’ 

Bruce pulled Clark’s head up, fingers twisted in his hair. Bruce held Clark in place. Clark had no choice but to meet his gaze. Bruce looked solemn, serene. Expectant.

‘I asked you if you meant it. Aren’t you going to ask?’

Bruce’s voice was never this soft. The softness more than the words themselves made Clark understand what Bruce wanted, what Bruce was asking him to do. Clark swallowed and swallowed again. He tipped his head further back, the comforting press of Bruce’s hands on him keeping him grounded.

‘Did you mean it?’ Clark repeated Bruce’s words. His mouth felt dry and his heart was in his throat.

Bruce let go of his hair and traced his thumb along Clark’s jawline, over his cheekbone, mapping the curve of Clark’s mouth with his touch. A smile tugged at his mouth. It looked almost nervous. It made Clark’s heart sing.

‘Yes, I did.’ Bruce said and kissed him.


End file.
